


Reasons

by crackinthecup



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, One Shot, Silverfisting, Slash, implied angbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 04:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2637464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When he first comes to Eregion, you mistrust him; they all mistrust him; but you alone among them draw him close." An overview of what transpired between the Lord of Gifts and the Noldorin smith, with brief mentions of Melkor/Sauron. Written from a second-person perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reasons

When he first comes to Eregion, you mistrust him; they all mistrust him; but you alone among them draw him close. You will keep an eye on him, you promise yourself; you will be careful.

His skill is true and his counsel wise, and both he shares freely with whoever asks. Annatar, he calls himself, the Lord of Gifts, but you can sense darkness about him, lingering, coiling—a whiff, nothing more, and then it is gone and does not resurface for a long time.

He smiles and laughs with your people, even with you. His eyes remind you of gold ore, but infinitely richer, infinitely purer, and you tell him as much, once, after one too many glasses of mead. He says nothing, but soon afterwards he is in your bed, and you writhe and beg and gasp beneath him. He shushes you, and he kisses you; he fucks you as you have always wanted to be fucked, and in those moments you feel that he understands.

Oh, if only your father could see you now, you think; if only he could see how readily the grandson of the legendary Fëanor bows his head in submission. Such a dark thrill runs through you at the forbidden thought, and that night you beg him to take you harder; to kick your legs open and fuck you senseless. He obliges, and you scream out your twisted, delirious pleasure beneath him; your orgasm runs through you in heady, burning rills, and you feel breathless, exhilarated. Afterwards, when the sweat has cooled on your body and he inquires after your motives in a low, soft voice, you tell him everything; and his hoots of laughter chill you to the bone, but you do not know why, you do not want to know why. And suddenly the fantasy crumbles; your father cannot see you now; your father is dead, because of the oath, because of the curse.

They accuse you, when all is said and done, that you were too blind to see. You aren't; you do see, more and more each day, but you do not think on it; you hide the memories under lock and key because it does not matter, it is not true. But it is true, and he schemes in secret, he weaves his plots, and you do nothing to stop him; he is harsher, somehow, less patient, and when he fucks you it hurts—his fingers clenched so tightly about your wrists; his teeth tearing at your skin—but he does not stop. And when he says he loves you, you do not believe him; you remain silent.

But he says it again, another night, when you are nestled in his arms and his kisses are sweet against your mouth. And you cannot help it; need throbs through your body, bright and puissant with the accents of your soul; because you crave this, this connection, this intimacy, and in that moment you care not what price shall be paid. You have seen another side of him, and you think it is his truth; you think you can nurture it, breathe life back into it, and watch him glow underneath the light as he was meant to all along; you think you know his secrets, even though each time you ask he waves an airy hand, and laughs his tinkling laugh, and kisses you so passionately that you feel it is not that important at all.

Affection swells in your chest and spills over your lips, and you think you have never meant anything like this before—those three words, so simple, but it is not simple at all. Yet you do not know that, not now, and you do not see the malice glittering in his eyes, the vicious rictus of mirth, of satisfaction ripping across his face at your confession.

You blame yourself when he tortures you; you think you deserve it, for being blind, for being gullible. But as blood wells up beneath the tip of his knife you know why it is violent, why it is painful; for love is not so easily scraped off your heart. And even when he is done you do not hate him; you cannot hate him; but at least you think you do not love him anymore.

As for him, he is thinking of another love and another life. He has sworn—never again—and he will keep that promise—a promise he has made amid crumbling walls and the bleeding of hearts. He tells himself he feels nothing as he fucks you; he tells himself he feels nothing as he tortures you. He is lying. But you cannot give him what he so desperately wants, and he discards you, eventually, because it is not quite the same; because you are not _him_.


End file.
